


(what's in a name?) that which we call a rose

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Barduil [23]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adopted, Bard is Celebrimbor's son, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Fourth elven ring, I don't think any archive warnings apply, Immortal!Bard, No beta we die like Thingol, We'll see what happens - Freeform, all up here tonight, but I'll update if I realize that was wrong, not sure if I'll post it, this fic is finished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26578570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Celebrimbor forged in secret a fourth elven ring. He just so happened to name it something rather unfortunate, or incredibly fortunate, if you ask Baldr.ORCelebrimbor adopted a human son, made a fourth ring, combined these two things, and (thousands of) years later Baldr Celebrimborrion, now Bard the Bargeman, makes his existence known.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bard the Bowman's Wife, Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Girion/Girion's Wife, Thranduil/Thranduil's Wife, background Sigrid/Haldir
Series: Barduil [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/267661
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	1. who are you? (who, who, who, who)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been hoarding my new fics because I was like 'no, I wanna actually finish them before I post them' so I have soooo many fics to post up here, but IDK if I'll get around to that, but... here, have some new Barduil content because... why the fuck not, right?!?!
> 
> Title is from Shakespeare.
> 
> Things to note:  
> Bard is Celebrimbor's son.  
> Thranduil is the grandson of a maia (my personal headcanon is actually that he's Radagast's grandson but that's just me because reasons)  
> Oropher is Thingol's brother (and is not the part maia parent)  
> Thranduil, Luthien, Nimloth, and Galion all grew up together...

Everyone believed there were only three so-called ‘elven’ rings of power. Technically, this is correct, as the keeper of the fourth elven ring is not, himself, elven. Though, in this case, there would then be ten rings for ‘mortal men doomed to die’. Though, this is also wrong, for the fourth ring granted its keeper an eternal life. This fourth ring, unlike its three hidden sisters, had never been worn. Touched, held, admired, hated, and adorned, certainly, but never worn.

The fourth ring, newly finished and not at all intended to go to the person who became its keeper, its maker had found the closest person they trusted and shoved the ring into their hands.

“Take this and go, flee through the hidden passages. Tell no one the burden you carry.” Celebrimbor had insisted, his hand holding the new keeper’s hand closed tight. “Wear it only when you have no choice. Do you understand, Baldr?”

“I understand, Lord. I’ll guard this with my life.” The young human had promised, not taking their eyes from Celebrimbor’s.

“Do not come back for us, Baldr, no matter what.” The elven lord had insisted, his hands still holding tight to the human’s own.

“Atar-“

“This is my last command to you, my child.” Celebrimbor had stated, shaking his head. “You will live, you will carry this burden, and you will _not_ return for me.”

“You’ll die, there’s too many-“

“I know, Baldr. This is why you must go and not return.” Celebrimbor had told them. “Go, son, to the dwarves. Do not look back.” The human had agreed reluctantly, grabbing up their weapons, lingering for a few moments over the Black Arrow Celebrimbor had made for them when they became old enough to learn to shoot.

When the fighting had started, the keeper of the fourth elven ring had left and, as commanded by his father, had not looked back. He bought news of his father’s plight to the dwarves in Khazad-Dûm, but he did not linger, passing through Durin’s door and continuing on until he left out through the Great Gates, and continued onwards. Briefly, he stopped in Lothlórien, and passed along the message once again, before venturing on.

Still, he did not look back.

* * *

The years had passed, sometimes slowly and sometimes too quickly for the keeper of the fourth ring. He did as his father had commanded him and did not return to Eregion, in fact, he did not return to Eriador at all. He stayed in Rhovanion, moving from one settlement of Man to the next and to the next and to the next. Word reached him, eventually, of what had befallen Eregion and his father, specifically, but as he’d promised, he did not return, it would have been far too late, even if he had.

So, he lingered, bound to the earth through the burden his father had given him. The fourth ring hung from a supposedly unbreakable chain around his neck, invisible to all but himself, for none now knew of its existence but him, as his father had intended.

Sometimes, it sang to him, with a voice that held many other voices, all woven seamlessly together bar one. One voice that rose above the others, or that sunk beneath them. One voice that delayed, or sped up, or didn’t sing at all. That voice whispered to Baldr, as all the others did, but Baldr found he was not tempted. He’d learned from his father of the betrayal of Sauron. Knew what to look for when spoken to with honeyed words, so he was unswayed. The other voices weren’t particularly all that much better if he was being entirely honest. So, for the most part, the ring sang to him and he listened, but he did not obey.

When the call for war came, he went. He picked up the sword his father had given him on his fifteenth birthday, picked up his Black Arrow, that had never failed him, picked up his bow that his father had given him when he mastered his archery training, and he went off to war with vengeance burning in his heart. The world had forgotten him, the adopted, human son of Lord Celebrimbor but Baldr hadn’t forgotten.

He was Baldr Celebrimborrion and he was _wrathful,_ so full of rage the very earth shook with it.

* * *

He did not learn until much later that Isildur had not destroyed the One. He’d already returned home after the long years of fighting when news reached him, enough little pieces to put together the puzzle and realize that Isildur, the fool, had kept the Ring for himself and doomed them all. The rage he’d felt at that had been untameable, so much so that, once more, the earth had trembled with it.

Baldr hadn’t cared, not in the least.

* * *

By the time Dale had grown large enough to actually hold his attention, his anger had faded to weary resignation; someday, his father’s murderer would return.

He hadn’t intended to fall in love with Dagny, but then he figured no one ever intended to fall in love. No one ever intended to make themselves so vulnerable. Dagny’s father had been the Lord of Dale and Dagny his only child. Girion, as Baldr was now called, hadn’t wanted to become a Lord, but he’d learned everything he needed to from his father, so he had no complaints when Dagny’s father died, and he automatically became the Lord of Dale. It was a title he had fully intended to pass onto their son, Alfin.

That had been before the dragon had come and destroyed everything.

This time, when Girion left, he kept looking back, unable to stop himself.

* * *

There was darkness growing in the Greenwood Forest, it had been growing in secret for many years, Girion had known, growing since before he ever took on that name. The darkness that grew was familiar, he would know it anywhere, for he would recognize its master anywhere, even were its master to come before him in guise, the way they came before his father. After all, unlike his father, Girion had a ring that contained a piece of the darkness’ master, though they hadn’t been twisted and turned to darkness, then.

Girion doesn’t attempt to dissuade the ring from its self-appointed task when he feels its power sinking into the forest that borders his new home on the lake. The power of the ring slowly seeps into the power already within the forest mixing and becoming one with it. That power, Girion has come to assume, belongs to the new Elven King under the canopy. Though, he supposes, they’re not so new anymore, having been there well over a thousand years now. Still, they seem unaware of the power the ring has all but woven within their own, so Girion is happy enough to let it be. Besides, it’s always a good idea to keep track of one’s enemies.

* * *

Girion, who is now called Bard, spends countless hours beneath the canopy of the forest, feeling out the borders the ring has established, ensuring that the forest still flourishes even as a great part of it withers. He thinks the Maia in the western part of the forest might feel the ring’s power, but Bard assumes they disregard it as being that of the Elven King’s; it’s not, of course. Greenwood has become as much his domain as Dale was, as Lake Town is, and he will protect it as much as he is able.

Perhaps this is why he takes the dwarves away from the forest, the earth whispering of their danger with every single step they take. He wants them away from his forest, far away. Which is why, he assumes later, he never bothered to consider whether the danger they were bringing was not only following them but beckoning them onwards, too.

He should have known exactly what Thorin Oakenshield was doing, he’d known the dwarf as a lad, after all.


	2. limitless (and fearless)

Lake Town burns around him and he can only hope that his children have escaped as he fires arrow after arrow at the dragon until he has only his Black Arrow left. He watches the dragon soar overhead and focusses his gaze on the exposed section of the dragon’s belly, no armour from the treasure, and no scale to provide any protection.

As he knocks the arrow to his bow he thinks of his father, remembers the day his father had found him. Four years old and hidden in the well as the smoke from the fire, that claimed his village, had clogged up the air. He’d been the only one to survive and if the elves hadn’t come in search of the source of the smoke, he wouldn’t have even accomplished that; unable to climb from the well himself.

 _“Wood burns, stone crumbles, mud cracks, but it can all be rebuilt, Baldr.”_ His father had promised, when he’d been ten and so angry with the world for taking his parents from him. “ _Life? Now, that can’t be rebuilt, can’t be given back once taken, once destroyed. Your parents ensured you would live, Baldr, because you were more precious to them than anything else in this world. All they asked of you is that you live a good life and, when your time comes, you’ll see them again.”_

He sucks in a breath, steadies himself, lines up his target, and fires. The Black Arrow does not miss, it never has. He watches the dragon plummet from the sky and feels the grim satisfaction bloom in his chest before his exhaustion and his grief all but snuff it out.

Why must he always flee as his home is destroyed behind him?

* * *

His children survived. He cries as he clutches them to his chest and can’t bring himself to let go. They survived despite all the odds, and Bain even rescued his sword. He doesn’t know how his children managed to be so lucky, how _he_ managed to be so lucky, and he stubbornly refuses to believe it has anything to do with the voices whispering at him from the ring. Though, they probably are to blame.

* * *

Meeting the Elf-king for the first time is an experience, he hadn’t been Lord of Dale long enough to get to meet the mysterious king, and while he’d caught glimpses of the elf during the War, they’d never been more than that. The Elf-king is beautiful and not just for the magic that pours off of him in visible waves, though Bard is certain he’s the only one who can actually see that magic, given the excited whispering from his burden.

The Elf-king offers aid, even as he pretends otherwise, Bard wants to laugh at the weak excuse, but his father had sometimes done similar, so he figures it’s an elven thing and lets it go. He doesn’t even make a comment of it when he’s quietly handed a piece of parchment that breaks down what provisions the elves, and therefore the Elven King, have given them. He simply says thank you and promises to pay the debt as soon as they’re able, the Elf-king waves away his thanks and his promise. Bard sees the satisfaction that shines in the elf’s eyes and knows the offer is appreciated, even if it’s ultimately refused.

Bard spends the next little while ensuring the survivors from Lake Town have what they need to at least tide them over until they can start rebuilding the city. It’s full of skeletons, literally, and Bard doesn’t know if he truly wants to stay here, but his people need somewhere to recover and it’s not like anyone else is going to claim Dale and all of its tragic history, all of _his_ tragic history.

* * *

Once he’s gotten his people sorted, he finds himself being pulled into meetings with the Elf-king, Thranduil, and his advisors. Discussion is heavy around the dwarves and what happened with the dragon and Bard doesn’t complain when the elves start calling him Dragonslayer, doing so would be pointless when he’s heard whispers of that title since he helped survivors out of the burning Lake Town.

He wonders what his father would have to say of the dwarves, the descendants of his good friend Narvi and the dwarves that had been the closest allies to the elves in Eregion. He knows that for himself, he’s disappointed but not surprised, these dwarves are, after all, also the descendants of the dwarves who murdered King Thingol in his halls.

Thinking of King Thingol and everything else he’d learned of the history of the elves, he realizes that Thranduil Oropherion is the exact same Thranduil of Menegroth who slew Curufin, his grandfather. Belatedly, he realizes he probably shouldn’t be so friendly with the elf, but he can’t seem to help it. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the elf had him under some sort of spell, but he does know better. Besides, he’s been in love twice before, he knows exactly what falling feels like and while he’s not yet hit rock bottom, he’s well on his way.

* * *

The ring whispers at him in earnest, the earth rumbling unhappily beneath his feet as they all prepare for the battle. He can’t tell if that unhappiness is caused by the commotion in the southern part of Mirkwood or if it is caused by something else. So, he ignores the voices as much as he can and tries not to let his attention wander too far from him, even as his curiosity is peaked about just what is happening in the forest.

When the giant worms burst up from beneath, he knows this is what the ring was trying to warn him of, but it’s far too late to heed that warning now.

* * *

There are far, far too many enemies, orcs, and goblins, and wargs, and just far, far too many enemies to kill, and Thorin may have rallied the dwarves and some of the elves, but he’s led them into what is essentially a kill box and none of them had been able to see it until the box had closed around them. Bard knows, from the whispers of the ring, that Thranduil’s son happens to be one of the elves in that little kill box, the elf’s magic so familiar to his father’s, but untrained. Bard knows, from the way the Elf-king is _not_ recklessly throwing himself at the kill box, that he does not yet know the danger his son is in.

Bard also knows that, for now, his own children are as safe as they could be, hidden away in the Great Hall, but that it wouldn’t matter if this battle was lost. If they lose, his children will be slaughtered, his people will be slaughtered, the way his father was slaughtered, the way all of his childhood friends were slaughtered.

His hand is moving before he is even conscious of it, pulling the chain from around his neck, removing the ring from it, and putting the chain back around his neck. He sucks in a deep breath, apologizing briefly to his father before he slips the ring on his finger. He throws his head back in a silent scream as power rockets through him, feels the earth _breathing_ beneath his feet, feels the fires at the earth’s core warming him, even though they are buried so far underneath him. He clutches at his head as he suddenly becomes aware of every single living and breathing being on the surface of the planet.

The ring whispers directly into his mind, a soft apology as the information overload suddenly recedes to a trickle and he comes back to himself in the middle of the battle. Notes the way the earth ripples under his feet, swallowing those orcs who get too close to him. He sucks in desperate breaths and wipes at the blood trickling down from his nose and tries to ignore the blood he can feel dribbling from his ears. He takes a moment to regain his bearings, then he launches back into the fighting, the ring shining green and bright on his finger as he causes controlled earthquakes and landslips and other earthen based ‘natural’ disasters to occur across the battlefield.

Somehow, he manages to save Thranduil’s son along with most who had been caught in the kill box, including the three heirs of Durin.

When the battle finally, thankfully ends, Bard has the peace of mind to remove the ring from his finger, return it to its chain and let it hang once more around his neck, invisible to the world. Then, he plummets to the earth and straight into unconsciousness, as the voices of the ring whisper at him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to note: 
> 
> Curufin is Celebrimbor's father (for those who didn't read Silm/Other Tales)  
> During the Second Kinslaying, Dior and Celegorm slew each other, Nimloth and Caranthir slew each other, Thranduil and Curufin ALMOST slew each other, but Galion interferred and Thranduil killed Curufin, instead.
> 
> Title from Become the Beast by Karliene


	3. welcome (to the new age)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Radioactive by Imagine Dragons...

Bard returns to awareness with a groan, opening his eyes to blink up at the blue sky above him as the eagles circle, _when did the eagles arrive?_ He wonders vaguely as he forces himself to sit up, his body protesting violently, as if he’s just done the hardest bit of labour in his life and, he realizes, he probably has, given that he doesn’t think anyone is supposed to wield the full power of the Earth.

He struggles up onto his feet, swaying as the world spins all around him and he has to fight not to throw up. He clenches his hand around his sword and uses it as a crutch as he slowly makes his stumbling way back to Dale. He collapses three times before he makes it back and when he finally does arrive back, he’s quickly bustled away to the healing tents by the townsfolk who find him.

He ends up having a tent all to himself, which he argues over, but considering he’s too exhausted to really be coherent, he loses that particular battle, and shortly after also loses the battle against unconsciousness, too.

* * *

Bard wakes again as the tent flaps shift and he slowly turns his head to find Thranduil stepping through accompanied by another, vaguely familiar, elf. It takes a long moment of staring at the second elf to place him in his thoughts, he’d seen portraits of this elf back in father’s house. The only living cousin his father had had, Elrond Peredhil, healer, Lord of Imladris.

Bard groans and turns away from them, looking up at the ceiling of the tent as his body still angrily protests the power he’d allowed to flow through him. He only resists bringing his hands up to rub at his face because of the pain that bursts through him when he tries to shift them, and he sucks in a pained breath, closing his eyes even as the elves step up to his bedside.

“Lord Bard-?” Thranduil starts to ask, but he’s cut off by the other elf exclaiming in surprise.

“It’s you.” Elrond murmurs, Bard struggles to open his eyes and shift his head to look at him, finds the elf staring directly at where Bard can feel the ring resting on his chest. This time, when he moves his arm, the pain isn’t enough to stop him, even as he grits his teeth against it. He claws his hand around the ring, clutching it against his chest as he breathes through the agony. It won’t kill him, he knows. If it was going to, he’d already be dead.

“You can see it?” he asks, coughing as the words irritate his throat.

“Of course, I can see it!” Elrond exclaims, but Bard just huffs and breathes deep. He supposes that’s the reason his father told him not to wear the ring unless he needed it because it would draw the attention of the other ring bearers, which means Sauron probably knows. Except, the ring is already whispering that they hid him from the sight of the other ring bearers, Elrond only knows because he can see the ring in person now. Bard forces his eyes to open again as he looks at Elrond’s hands, spots the ring glowing softly like a little star on his finger.

“I’m feeling like I’ve missed something.” Thranduil cuts in, Bard laughs, even as his chest burns with the action. He sucks in a painful breath and wills the ring to be visible, sees the way Thranduil visibly recoils as the ring becomes visible. “But that-that’s impossible.”

“Clearly not.” Bard murmurs, letting his gaze drift back to Elrond, who is staring at Bard’s weapons as if he’s seen some sort of ghost. Bard follows his gaze and realizes suddenly that his father’s mark is all over the weapons and that here is one who would recognize such marks without even having to put effort into it.

“How did you come by all of these things?” Elrond queries, something low and dangerous in his voice and Bard just snorts.

“My father made them for me.” He answers, sees the colour drain out of the elf, and smirks. “He adopted me into his House. I’m certain as the Head of that House, you can feel it.” He says, notes the way Thranduil chokes on air, even as Bard's eyes don’t move from Elrond, who has turned to look at him in something like horror. “The world forgot about Baldr Celebrimborrion, but _he_ didn’t forget.”

“But-but _how_?” Elrond demands though it sounds a bit more like a desperate whine than anything else. Bard swallows, black spots dancing across his vision as he feels light-headed, but he pushes through it, as he has before, and he probably will again.

“Atar finished the fourth ring just as the Dark One arrived at our gates. Atar pressed the ring into my hands and told me to flee and not look back. So, I did. I fled to Khazad-Dûm, told the dwarves of what had befallen Eregion, then I moved on, to Lothlórien, where I passed them the same message, then I carried on. Settled with the Men of Rhovanion and never looked back.” Bard explains, each word an effort, but he perseveres. “Atar forgot something quite crucial when he made this.”

“Oh?” Elrond queries, slowly sitting down in one of the chairs near Bard’s bed, Thranduil quietly seating himself in another, Bard takes a moment to glance at the Elf-king, finds him unusually pale and shaky.

“Ring of earth. Problem with that is that earth isn’t _just_ an element.” Bard says, gently running his finger around the ring’s edge, listens as it sings to him with one voice made of multiple voices. He notes the perplexed looks the elves give him and he smiles, amused. “Gentle-elves, we live in a world called Earth.”

“Oh, Valar!” Elrond murmurs, as the light of understanding flourishes in his eyes.

“For Eru’s sake! When will the House of Fëanor learn to stop being so ridiculous with their crafting? How hard is it to have some self-control?” Thranduil hisses, also obviously understanding what Bard had been implying. “And you!” Thranduil suddenly pokes him in the chest, Bard yelps in surprise. “What did you think you were doing using a ring of power in the middle of a battle against the Enemy? _Especially_ the most powerful of them all?” the king demands to know, as his hands start glowing with power Bard knows to be healing in nature.

“I was saving your son from the kill box he let himself be lead into.” Bard replies, knowing the moment the words are out of his mouth that he shouldn’t have said them, even though he hadn’t meant to say them in the first place. Thranduil’s entire body goes rigid, the glow slowly fading away. 

“What?”

“He’s fine. He’s alive.” Bard assures him, as the ring whispers its confirmation in his ears, though that magic so similar to Thranduil’s is no longer in Dale or anywhere on the battlefield, he can feel it towards Greenwood in the west. “Just pretend I didn’t say anything.” Thranduil frowns at him, his eyes narrowed, before he finally gives a stiff nod, the glow returning to his hands, Elrond is a few seconds behind him, then they’re both taking up a healing song, and the pain blissfully ebbs away.

“We’ll talk of all this later.” Thranduil cautions, just as unconsciousness once more rises to claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important things: 
> 
> Celebrimbor named the ring for the 'earth' just as the other elven rings are named for water, air, and fire. Earth also happens to be the name of the planet they live in (Arda) and the Song of Arda became imbued within the ring at its creation... (but Celebrimbor was blissfully unaware of this)


	4. now you know my name (mother, destroyer, one and the same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Alpha by Little Destroyer

Waking up the morning after the battle is an experience, if only because the pain that had followed Bard through the aftermath of the battle is no longer present. He sucks in a breath and his chest, his lungs, his entire body doesn’t scream at him in protest, so he does it again. Truly, he’d forgotten the wonders of elven healing in the good four-five thousand-odd years since he’d last gotten to experience it.

He sits up in the bed and scrubs at his face, clearing the sleep from his face, before blinking the spots from his eyes and looking around the tent. He remembers, suddenly, the conversation he’d had with Thranduil and Lord Elrond the day before and he reaches up to grip the ring in his hand. Its multi-voice whispering soothingly to him, even as he wills the ring to become invisible once again. Not that it is too important at this stage, he knows enough of the rings that they leave their keepers only if they wished to, unless there are Narsils around and last Bard heard, Narsil was in shards in Rivendell, so he doesn’t need to worry about that.

He pulls himself from the bed and goes to collect his weapons, strapping his sword back onto his hip, setting his quiver over his shoulder along with his bow before he heads out of the tent, in search of either a bath, his children, or Thranduil, preferably in that order.

* * *

Sometimes, Bard does get lucky. He manages to get a warm bath, new clothing, _and_ a warm meal before he’s found by Percy and hustled off to see his children. He’d known already that they’d survived, the ring having kept him constantly advised of the wellbeing of his children, though he thinks he should probably be more concerned that the ring calls them ‘ours’, he’s not sure if the ring is meaning all the voices in the ring, or more of a collective ‘Bard and the ring’ type deal. Also, he realizes, at some point, he should probably start calling the ring by its name since he can do that now.

“Da!” he scoops Tilda up when she runs within the ring of his arms, spinning her around and hugging her to his chest before gently setting her back on the ground. “We were so worried and King Thranduil said you were in a healing tent but we shouldn’t disturb you because you needed your rest and-“ Bard lets her voice wash over him, soaking in the sound, even as he pulls his other two children into a hug, Tilda still happily prattling on, not at all concerned that he doesn’t respond.

“Da, you should go and find King Thranduil.” Bain eventually says, when Tilda pauses to suck in a breath, her cheeks red with the exertion of talking not stop without air.

“Why? Has something happened?” Bard asks, looking at the determined look on his son’s face. Bain looks so much like his older brothers it sometimes feels like an arrow through the heart. His three youngest children will never meet their elder brothers, Alfin and Brandr. They’ll never meet their grandfather, either. Of all of them, he’s the one that it should be possible for them to meet, but he was the first one lost.

“Da?”

“Sorry, Bain, what were you saying?” Bard murmurs, when he realizes that he’s not heard a word of whatever his son has been saying.

“Lord Dain and King Thranduil have been… well, negotiating isn’t really the correct term, since I think mostly they’ve just been refraining from murdering each other.” Bain explains, Bard draws in a breath and lets it out on a tired sigh.

“Right. I guess I should go mediate that.” He reluctantly decides, pulling away from his children and climbing to his feet. “Keep out of trouble and do what you can to help, alright?” he says, looking from his daughters to his son and getting three enthusiastic nods in return. “You can tell me all about it later, Tilda, alright?” he asks his youngest, sees her eyes shining with her agreement, before Sigrid starts to lead her away with a quiet ‘see you later, da!’ Bain only a few steps behind them. It takes Bard far too long to turn and walk away.

* * *

He finds Thranduil and Lord Dain in the destroyed throne room, sat around a large wooden table that’s obviously been moved into space, so none of them have to enter territory specifically already claimed by any of the others, though if Bard’s being honest, they’re in _his_ territory. His old throne room on land he’s already reclaimed as his own. If they didn’t want to listen to him, they should have chosen to have their argument in someone else’s domain. Because that is what they are doing, both as far from each other as they can be while still being seated at the table, their voices raised in anger, the sound echoing around the ruins.

“Enough!” Bard snaps, smacking his hand against the stone column beside him. The stone cracks, loudly, and ripples beneath his hand, but the already ruined column doesn’t collapse. “If you’re going to argue like little children I would ask you to take it out of my throne room and to your own!” Thranduil has the grace to look ashamed, if only for a fleeting second before its hidden behind his cool mask, but Lord Dain grumbles unflatteringly in Khuzdul, and Bard refuses to let that pass without comment. He hisses back his challenge to duel if Lord Dain deigns not to take back his unwise words. That gets a response, the Dwarf Lord’s eyes going wide as he stutters out an apology and a retraction. “We are, supposedly, all adults here. How about we attempt to act like it?” he asks, as he takes his seat at the table, equally spaced between both the elf and the dwarf.

“Agreed.” Thranduil answers, though his voice is the ripping and tearing of branches and vines in the forest.

“Fine.” Lord Dain agrees, though his voice is the harsh sound of stone grinding against stone.

Bard doesn’t sigh, even though he wants to. He learned enough from watching his father mediate things between the Dwarves of Khazad-Dûm and the Elves from… Anywhere That Was Not Ost-in-Edhil, he knows exactly how exhausting but also rewarding these talks are bound to be.

Though, he would have preferred more time to gather his wits than he’s been allowed.

Still, his father taught him well.

* * *

Bard finds mediating an ancient elven-king and a dwarf lord to be a little bit like parenting. He sets the times they break for food or to get some fresh air -despite the open throne room-, and he’s the one who breaks up the fights they keep inevitably breaking out in. He has to fight back a laugh at the mental image of Thranduil sitting, shoulders hunched, arms crossed over his chest and giant pout on his face, the way Tilda still looks whenever she got told off. Honestly, he could do this all day and, he realizes with a tired sigh, he has been doing it all day as he watches the sun ready to disappear on the horizon.

“Let’s stop for the day. Meet back again tomorrow.” He states, before Dain and Thranduil can start yet another argument, Dain frowns at him, but gives a stiff nod and grumbles some sort of farewell before marching from the room, his head held high. Bard truly hopes King Thorin isn’t going to scrap the whole agreement when he’s well enough to have a say in his own trade and alliance agreements.

“I did not know you knew Khuzdul.” Thranduil’s voice pulls his attention and he turns to find the Elf-king looking at him, green eyes shining intently. Bard shrugs his shoulders and leans back in his chair.

“My father was all but adopted into the House of Durin.” Bard points out, with an amused smile. “Narvi taught him Khuzdul, he taught me.” He admits, idly drawing the Fëanorian Star on the table with his finger. “I learned Quenya and Sindarin, too, not that I’ve had any cause to use them since Ost-in-Edhil fell.” He hesitates, his eyes going to where Dain had been sitting before he turns to Thranduil, brow furrowed. “I know of Menegroth-“ he says, notes the minute flinch Thranduil tries to hide but fails “-and I know that you had an agreement with the dwarves before that Thror broke years before the dragon came. Why do you align with them again? Why do you trust them when they, or their ancestors, have already betrayed your trust, _twice_?”

“I _try_ not to hold people’s actions against their descendants. The sins of the father are not the sins of the son. I am not always successful in that endeavor.” Thranduil admits, he clenches his jaw before slowly loosening it, letting out a heavy sigh as he turns his gaze towards Erebor. “I have some aspect of foresight.” The elf admits, an unhappy frown pulling at his lips. “Dale, Erebor, the Iron Hills, Greenwood, they all fall if we cannot reach an accord.” Thranduil’s eyes are glazed, staring into the middle distance seeing something that Bard can’t, but he doesn’t need to be able to see it, to know what he’s imagining. He knows, after all, who is behind the darkness that threatens to swallow Greenwood whole.

“So, we’ll reach an accord.” He decides, smirking when Thranduil’s gaze snaps back to him. “Sometimes, I might not trust the people I have to share this world with, I might not even like them, but I still have to share the world with them. Plus, I’d much rather share the world with dwarves and elves than be sharing a grave with them, instead.” Bard answers, reaching up to grasp at the ring, at Kémya as she sings to him, as she always is. “Besides that, I don’t think Kémya’s going to give up any part of Rhovanion without a fight.”

“Kémya.” Thranduil murmurs, his eyes on the ring.

“I had to convince her that she couldn’t steal the name ‘Kementari’ like she wanted to.” Bard explains, smiling as her voice turns indignant.

“She is… sentient?” Thranduil queries, his brow furrowing, Bard hesitates before slipping the chain over his head and pooling it into his palm, which he holds out to Thranduil. “Bard-“

“I’m not giving it to you, I’m letting you hold it for a moment.” Bard clarifies, wiggling his fingers when Thranduil doesn’t move. “It won’t hurt you and so long as you don’t put the ring on, you won’t be revealed.” Thranduil glares at the ring but finally holds his hand out, palm up, Bard gently places the ring and the chain in his hand and presses it closed.

“I can hear them singing.” Thranduil murmurs, his voice quiet and awed, his eyes once more glazed over, Bard hums his agreement. “I can feel the Greenwood,” Thranduil exclaims suddenly, his face falling into a confused frown. “But-“

“She’s been helping you protect the forest since the Darkness came.” Bard admits, accepting the ring when Thranduil all but thrusts it back into his hands and pulls away like he’s been burnt. “Atar never told me who she was intended for, but I’ve assumed she was meant to be yours.”

“Mine?” Thranduil asks, his voice barely more than a breath.

“I went through Lothlórien on my way here all those years ago. I met Ernil Amroth, Aran Amdír, Lord Celeborn, and Lady Galadriel, but Kémya responded to none of them and, at that point, Lady Galadriel already had Nenya.” Bard explains, setting the chain back around his neck. “Ata told no one of Kémya, she was the last he made. Even I learned of it only when my father had no choice. I think she was intended for you, as a last resort, for who would believe Lord Celebrimbor would ever give a ring of power to the elf who slew his father?” Bard says, watching as Thranduil recoils like he’s been struck.

“No one has mentioned that to me in-“ Thranduil trails off, shaking his head, his head dropping, his gaze locked in his own lap. “He would not have given the ring to me.”

“I disagree.” Bard murmurs, shaking his head. “But even if that’s true, he no longer has any say over it and if I thought you would accept, I’d give Kémya to you.”

“If she has a will of her own then-“

“She’d be more than happy to be in your keeping.” Bard points out, as Kémya whispers her agreement. He does not like this new side of Thranduil, the fact that Thranduil’s head is still bowed, his words quiet and doubting and full of self-recrimination. Bard knows exactly what circumstances lead to his grandfather’s death, he doesn’t hold any of it against the elf before him, and he knows his father didn’t either. “She is my burden to bear, so I will bear her. But you are not alone in your fight beneath the trees in the depths of your forest, Thranduil. You have _never_ been alone in it. The Dark One stirs and when he is ready to step into the light, _we_ will be ready to face him.” Bard promises, sees as Thranduil suddenly seems to crumple under a weight he’s believed himself to be carrying alone for far too long.

Bard notes the guards at the entrance to the throne room, and to Thranduil’s own tent before making a decision. He gets to his feet quickly and crosses to Thranduil’s side, his hands gentle as he grips Thranduil’s wrist and pulls him to stand. Thranduil goes without any complaint or resistance and neither of them says anything as Bard leads him to the king’s tent, ducking through and out of the sight of any prying eyes. The tent flap has barely fallen shut behind them when Bard finds himself being pulled into a trembling but crushing embrace.

He wonders how long it has been since the last time the Elf-king cried because he does not cry now, he _breaks,_ a tower of cards stacked one layer too high and it all comes tumbling down. The last time Bard had broken, like Thranduil is, had been after Dale after the dragon came the first time. Back when he’d clung to being Girion like if he refused to let go of who he’d made himself, his wife, his children wouldn’t really be dead, his city wouldn’t be destroyed, his home wouldn’t be gone. He’d clung and clung and clung, but no matter who you are, eventually, you have to let go, whether you want to or not.

He cradles Thranduil in his arms and just lets him fall apart. There will be time, later, to help him pull himself back together. But, there’s no point trying to help him stitch himself back together, now, when he’s just going to keep tearing the wound open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to know: 
> 
> Kemya is 'earth mother/ mother earth'  
> The White Council assumed one of Sauron's leutenants was in command in Dol Guldur, rather than Sauron himself (Thran was the only one to know differently, or so he thought)  
> Celebrimbor disowned himself rather than join in on the Kinslayings (he's a total bro and doesn't hold Curufin's death against Thranduil because he's pretty sure he'd have killed Oropher if it was a matter of Oropher's life or his...)   
> Thran is about 0.5 seconds away from having a mental breakdown always (like me, tbh, such a fucking mood)


	5. come to me (in the night hours)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard and Thran are the opposite of 'slow burn' in this... or... Bard's very confident in what he wants and Thran just can't say no...
> 
> Title from War of Hearts by Ruelle (such a fucking Barduil song... )

Bard doesn’t intend to spend the night with Thranduil, in Thranduil’s tent, in Thranduil’s bed. At some point, Bard had led an exhausted and oddly complaint Thranduil to bed, but when Bard had tried to leave, a slender, shaking hand had gripped his wrist and refused to let go. Bard had looked into a set of pleading, haunted, _broken_ green eyes and folded like that stack of cards he’d compared Thranduil to earlier.

That’s how he finds himself waking up with a living furnace all but attached to his chest and white-blond hair splayed over his face. He turns his head slightly and watches Thranduil sleep, wonders whether Thranduil had actually rested after the battle and whatever time he spent assisting Elrond with healing, given the way the Elf-king’s eyes are closed. Though the smile on his lips is pleasant, his expression peaceful as he slumbers.

There’s movement at the entrance to the room, Bard glancing up and finds Thranduil’s right-hand elf peering through the tent flap. Galion rolls his eyes at Bard, who just smiles back in lieu of shrugging since such action would probably wake the king snuggled in his arms. Galion crosses his arms and glares at Thranduil, who starts to stir. Bard wants to tell Galion to go away and let Thranduil sleep longer, but he does know exactly how busy everyone is and how nowhere near close they are to being done with all that needs to be completed to ensure Erebor and Dale survive the winter that’s coming.

He can pinpoint the exact moment that Thranduil wakes given the way his entire body goes tense and the smile that had been on his lips just moments before is wiped away. Bard is sorry to see it go, but he’s come to learn that’s the fate of all of Thranduil’s smiles, they are present for a blink, a brief flash of time, and then they’re gone, like the snuffing out of the stars above them. There one moment, gone the next.

“I’m relatively certain it’s polite to take someone on a date before bringing them back to bed, first. But someone might argue all the time we spent drinking wine and discussing battle plans counts, since we were, technically, alone.” Bard says, before Thranduil can talk, those green eyes slowly blinking open. “Although,” Bard murmurs, glancing to where Galion has stepped through the tent flap now, a frown on his face. “I think Galion might be here to defend _your_ honour rather than mine.” That gets a snort from Thranduil and a sigh from Galion.

“This one is more than capable of defending his own honour.” Galion mutters, rubbing at his face. “Thranduil, if you don’t want to be the talk of the _entire_ camp, you may wish to get up and send the future King of Dale trotting off back to his children.”

“Let the camp talk.” Thranduil mutters, scowling at Galion, who simply scowls back.

“I would rather not become known as King Homewrecker, thank you.” Bard states, before either of the elves can say anything further, that gets him four confused eyes blinking at him. “I’m… relatively certain your son didn’t just spring fully formed from a flower bud?” he says, because he knows exactly how much he’s let himself fall, but he was raised by elves, he knows all about their traditions, particularly around marriage.

“Oh!” Galion exclaims, laughing. “No, thankfully, my king isn’t so foolish as to generate _that_ particular type of scandal.”

“Hush, Galion! Go away! I’m more than capable of having this discussion without you holding my hand!” Thranduil states, frowning at Galion, who simply rolls his eyes but turns and heads out, anyway.

“I’ve clearly missed something.” Bard states when Thranduil doesn’t speak again.

“My wife was Silvan,” Thranduil explains, Bard simply nods, but that still doesn’t fill him in on whatever connection he’s not made that he’s supposed to have. “They believe in living only one life upon this earth. Content to wait for the Breaking and Remaking of the world before they can live another. As such, marriage for them ends at death.”

“Oh.” Bard murmurs as he understands what Thranduil is telling him without specifically saying it. Slowly, a frown forms on his lips. “So, still a scandal, then, just not an adultery type of scandal.” He comments, just to hear Thranduil laugh.

“No.” Thranduil confirms, sucking in a breath and pulling away from Bard, who mourns the loss of the warmth. “Not that type of scandal.”

“Well, if I’m going to be known as King Scandalous, do I at least get a kiss out of this?” Bard asks, watching as Thranduil’s shoulders tense, before the elf turns back to look at him with calculating and, surprisingly, hopeful eyes. Bard simply raises an eyebrow and smirks. “You’ve already talked me into bed with you, are you going to deny me a kiss?”

“I think you’ll find, King Bard, that I’ll deny you nothing.” Thranduil murmurs before he crawls back over the bed to claim Bard’s lips in a kiss that Bard will be smug about for the rest of the day.

* * *

The next few days pass in a monotonous blur of negotiations that double as shouting matches. While the evenings are spent first with his children listening to their tales about whatever they’ve been getting up to in the daylight hours then, once the children are in bed, he slips away to spend the rest of the night with Thranduil, much to Galion’s exasperation.

“He doesn’t seem to hate me, so I’m getting mixed signals,” Bard admits to Thranduil one night, his back up against the headboard and Thranduil’s head in his lap, his hands tangling through Thranduil’s beautiful white-gold locks.

“He likes you,” Thranduil promises, smiling up at him. “He’s just not sure that you’re not going to suddenly fly off the handle and get vengeance for your grandfather or something equally ridiculous.” Thranduil says with a weary sigh. “Galion and I are all either of us has left of the friends we had in Menegroth. We’re overly protective of each other.”

“So, he’ll just eventually figure out that I’m not a threat?” Bard asks, but Thranduil laughs at that, like what Bard’s said is funny. “Thranduil!”

“You think you aren’t a threat?” Thranduil scoffs, sitting up and spinning to face Bard. “It took my wife two centuries to convince me to even entertain the idea of courting her. I’ve all but married you in less than a month and you think you aren’t a threat?”

“So, you’re saying Galion’s threatened by my seduction techniques?” Bard queries, quirking an amused eyebrow. “All I did was say please and thank you. I wasn’t even attempting to flirt.”

“Exactly.” Thranduil agrees, leaning forward to kiss him. “You weren’t even trying, and I still fell all over myself to have you.”

“Love, if that was you falling all over yourself, I’m intrigued to see you all put together.” Bard comments, pressing little kisses along Thranduil’s jaw, as the elf tilts his head to allow greater access. But, before anything more exciting can happen, they both pause and turn their gazes towards the tent flap, Thranduil’s ear twitching, while Kémya murmurs that one of her sisters is outside. Interestingly, Kémya cannot see who wears her sisters, only that they are present. “Gandalf or Elrond?” Bard murmurs to Thranduil, as they pull apart and slowly climb from the bed.

“Elrond.” Thranduil answers, frowning into the next room. “I wonder what he wants?”

“Atar didn’t tell me my cousin was a cockblock.” Bard mutters unhappily, though he laughs when he sees the confusion that forms on Thranduil’s face as the elf cocks his head to the side, his brows furrowed as he mouths the word ‘cockblock’ to himself.

“Oh, I see.” Thranduil eventually says, his eyes lighting up in amusement even as he rolls them. “You humans can be so vulgar, sometimes.”

“Not vulgar enough to pretend my cousin isn’t in the next room over and carry on as we were.” Bard points out, knowing Elrond can probably hear everything they’re saying. “Come on, let’s go see what Lord Killjoy wants.” Bard says with a sigh as he heads through the tent flap, finds Elrond sat at the table, a goblet of wine held in his hand and two others sitting on the wooden surface. “Oh no, he’s poured wine, that means he intends to stay!” Bard hisses at Thranduil, who shoots him an amused smile, even as the elf glides forward to take one of the goblets and takes a healthy sip.

“My hearing is quite excellent, you should know.” Elrond points out, smirking at Bard who just waves a hand at him in dismissal.

“Yes, yes, _exactly_. Your hearing is _excellent_ , so you should have known _not_ to interrupt, Lord Buzzkill.” Bard argues, before stalking forward to take the final goblet and sulking into its depths. “Go on, then. Put us out of our misery.”

“Humans are so odd.” Elrond murmurs to Thranduil in Sindarin, Bard rolls his eyes and responds in the same language.

“I’m fluent in Sindarin and Quenya, you should know.”

“I’m aware.” Elrond answers, his eyes shining with mischief, Bard sighs and goes to drape himself over Thranduil’s wooden throne, while its owner sprawls in the other chair at the table.

“Come along then, mellon. What is so important it could not wait until morning?” Thranduil queries, setting his goblet down on the table.

“Lord Celeborn will be here in the morning.” Elrond answers before taking a sip from his wine, his piercing grey eyes not looking away from Thranduil for a single moment.

“I’m sorry?” Thranduil exclaims, blinking in shock. “Celeborn hasn’t bothered to leave Lothlórien since… 2510.” The elf says, Bard quietly tries to remember the significance of the year, but draws only a blank, aside from the Battle on the Field of Celebrant. Whatever the year signifies, it leaches the joy from both elves more successfully than anything else Bard has seen outside of the battle and its aftermath.

“Well, he has left Lothlórien.” Elrond states, running his finger around the rim of the goblet and not meeting either of their eyes. “He did not say if Lady Galadriel was with him.”

“Course not, that would be helpful.” Thranduil mutters, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling at the ground. “Well, it’s early enough into our negotiations to allow him to enter them.”

“I don’t think he’s coming for negotiations, Thranduil.” Elrond comments as Bard looks between the pair of them, trying to understand what they’re truly saying, hidden between the words they speak aloud.

“No, I don’t imagine he is, but I have nothing to say to him.” Thranduil says, his gaze flicking up to glare at Elrond. “Just as I have little to say to you.”

“Thranduil-“

“I told you the mistake you made in letting Isildur walk away.” Thranduil replies, his jaw clenched tight. “Now, we begin to see the true extent of the consequences and it’s my people, as ever, who are having to deal with them.”

“It’s been a long day.” Bard cuts in before Elrond can speak, or Thranduil can say anything further. “Let’s not speak of such heavy things while we’re all weary.” He says, feeling suddenly like the mediator he’s spent all of the daylight hours being.

“You’re correct, King Bard,” Elrond states, setting his goblet down and climbing to his feet. “I apologise for intruding, but I thought you should be made aware of the situation.” The Lord of Rivendell says to Thranduil, bowing his head in respect to them both, before leaving without being dismissed.

Bard sighs as he takes in Thranduil’s still tightly clenched jaw, the angry glare in his eyes, and the tight set of his shoulders. He hasn’t paid nearly enough attention to what occurred in the elven realms after Ost-in-Edhil fell, he no longer had felt any need to, he was, after all, no longer the son of the Lord of the Fortress.

“Alright.” He says with another sigh, climbing to his feet and crossing to stand behind Thranduil, reaching out to massage Thranduil’s tense shoulders. He resists the smug grin that wants to form at the way Thranduil all but melts beneath his hands. “What have I missed?”

“A grudge I seem incapable of allowing to die.” Thranduil answers with a tired groan, bringing his hands up to burry his head in them. “The short version of the story, Elrond and I had a fight during and after the Last Alliance; I lost my father at the start, he lost Gil-Galad at the end. Words were spoken that shouldn’t have been. We’ve exchanged less than a handful of words with each other since, until Elrond arrived to help after the Battle a few days ago.”

“Right, and Lord Celeborn?”

“I warned the White Council, or the Council of the Wise, or whatever they’re going by these days, that Sauron was not defeated, that I had Seen his return. Lord Celeborn, along with the rest, refused my claim, ignored the warning.” Thranduil answers, Bard pulls back and steps around the table to sink into the chair Elrond had vacated, so he can look directly at his lover, but Thranduil’s still hiding his face in his hands. “The fortress my father built in the southern part of the forest lay in ruins, claimed by an enemy more powerful than any other I’d encountered save the Dark Ones, but it was all something I’d made up in my grief. As if I hadn’t already survived losing Menegroth, _twice_ , losing Sirion, losing the entirety of Beleriand, losing Lindon. No, supposedly, I was too young, too grief-stricken to know of what I was speaking.”

“Sometimes, we want something to be the truth so badly that we’ll ignore everything that disproves it.” Bard answers, twining his hands together and resting them on the table, a frown on his face. “If someone is trying to tell us the truth and we don’t want to hear it, we’ll push them away until they’re too far away for us to hear them speaking anymore.”

“The facts don’t change.” Thranduil points out, looking up at him, resting his chin on the back of his hand. For the first time, Bard can see the weight of the thousands of years Thranduil has lived settling on his shoulders and showing in the dimness in his gaze. “Whether we want to hear them or not. Ignoring a problem does not make it cease to exist, in my experience, it only gets worse, festering in the dark.”

“Well, no one is perfect, Thranduil.” Bard says, shaking his head. “I’m not excusing whatever happened between you and Lord Elrond or Lord Celeborn, but if they’re willing to make up for it, are you going to let them?”

“I don’t know.”

* * *

It’s long after Elrond has left, long after their – unresolved – discussion that Bard finally coaxes Thranduil into returning to bed, though neither of them is in any mood to do much else but snuggle. So, that’s all they end up doing, until finally, sleep takes first Thranduil then, later, Bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important things to know for this fic: 
> 
> The year 2510 of the Third Age is when Celebrian was attacked and left over the sea.  
> Silvan elves believe life is a one shot type of thing. So, you live once and that's it, until everything gets remade and you get a second chance...  
> Thranduil's father was killed in a premature attack against Sauron's forces during the Last Alliance, alongside the King of Lorien. As far as they were all concerned, the signal had been given from Gil-Galad to start the attack, but the signal was never given. Elrond and Thranduil argued over this, Elrond essentially blamed Thranduil (and Oropher and Amdir) for the mass loss of life that resulted, Thranduil responded by basically telling Elrond to get fucked and that when the day came that Elrond made a mistake that caused others to be hurt or killed that he never forgot that he was the one who fucked up (it gets explained a little more later on, but I think that's in the sequel, so I'll put this here anyway...)


	6. i know the pieces fit (i watched them tumble down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Schism by Tool

Bard wakes to the sound of Galion turning someone away from Thranduil’s tent, he listens quietly to whispered argument in Sindarin, assuming that Lord Celeborn must have arrived. He glances at Thranduil, finds his lover frowning towards the voices, even as he’s made no move to get out of the bed. Bard pauses when he catches the throwaway comment from Galion about his king needing to rest after taking an injury in the battle. Bard raises an eyebrow at Thranduil, who has suddenly adopted a ‘who, me?’ expression that almost competes with his girls’.

Bard narrows his eyes and, with skills honed over a childhood of trying to sneak around a fortress filled with elves, quietly starts checking Thranduil over for injuries. Something he hadn’t thought he’d need to do and something that probably would have already been completed if he and Thranduil had actually progressed beyond the ‘falling into bed together’ stage of… well, falling into bed together.

He finds the injury just below Thranduil’s clavicle and scowls at his lover, who doesn’t look at all contrite. He doesn’t say anything until the arguing voices fade away and Kémya confirms there are only the guards beyond their little bubble of makeshift privacy that doubles as a tent.

“I’ve had a broken collarbone before. How are you hiding this?” Bard demands, as he begrudgingly admits someone who knew what they were doing has already tended the wound. He’s just annoyed to not have known about it.

“I have a very high pain tolerance. Galion tells me it borders on the ridiculous.” Thranduil answers, a fond smile on his face as he talks of his friend. “I’m also well versed in certain aspects of healing ‘magic’, as you humans insist on calling it.” The king says with a sniff and a roll of his eyes, Bard snorts and shakes his head.

“So, you’re cheating, got it!” Bard announces, just to watch the pout that forms on Thranduil’s face, he laughs and kisses it away. “I assume Galion is the only other person who knows?”

“Well, my guards know, but they’re sworn to keep my secrets, so…” Thranduil replies, his eyes alight with amusement. “As long as I’m not actively dying, it’s no one’s business but my own.”

“I disagree on that, but we’ll revisit this discussion the next time you get hurt and don’t tell me.” Bard decides, knowing well the old adage of picking your battles wisely. “So, Galion fended off Lord Celeborn?”

“He’ll be back. He’ll only humour Galion until his patience runs thin.” Thranduil comments, sighing and resting his head heavily on the pillow beneath it. “I should probably go and deal with that sooner, rather than later.”

“On a scale of slaying a dragon to negotiating with the dwarves, how enthused are you to go and ‘make nice’ with Lord Celeborn?” Bard queries, raising an eyebrow when Thranduil scowls at him. “Come on, it’s a simple question.”

“My enthusiasm for both of the suggested ends of the spectrum is the same.” Thranduil points out, Bard winces with mock sympathy.

“Right, well, I know which one _I’d_ rather be doing but we should probably not tell the dwarves you think negotiating with them is as stupid, reckless, and hopeless as slaying a dragon.” Bard points out, grinning. “Though, if there were a pair to make that determination, it would be the two Dragonslayers within the vicinity.” Thranduil hums at him but doesn’t reply, as Bard visibly watches as Thranduil draws up the strength to get out of bed and deal with the tasks that lay before them.

“Come along, King Bard. The sooner we deal with the day, the sooner we can crawl back into bed.” Thranduil mutters as he finally manages to extract himself from the bed, Bard begrudgingly following after.

“The sooner we can be cockblocked again.” He mutters, smiling when Thranduil laughs but nods his head in agreement.

* * *

Bard heads off to check in on his children after he’s seen Thranduil metaphorically put on his armour and his mask and head off to do battle. Bard’s not quite sure, exactly, what he thinks will come from the meeting between the two ancient elves, but he knows enough of them to know that Lord Celeborn fulfilled something of the role of beloved uncle to a set of Doriathrin royals way back in the First Age. Bard’s only ever had one uncle, an old dwarf who, thankfully, didn’t live long enough to see his father die. Bard remembers those few years he had with his treasured uncle, he doesn’t know what he would have done if his Uncle Narvi had turned against him, the way Lord Celeborn seems to have turned against Thranduil.

He finds Sigrid chatting with a blond-haired elf that Bard doesn’t recognize. Bard takes a moment to consider the pair of them, sees the excitement in Sigrid’s eyes, the blush on her cheeks, and the shy smile on her face and he sighs. She’s eighteen and by the laws of their people, a woman grown, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to interfere. She’s still his daughter, young and barely old enough to know what she wants to do with the rest of her life. But, she’s an adult and if she decides that this elf is who she wants, Bard won’t stand in the way, he’ll just… ensure they are worthy of her.

“Sigrid, darling, who is your friend?” Bard asks, crossing to stand at his daughter’s side, hides a smile when both Sigrid and the elf leap back from each other. Instead when he looks at the elf, there is only curiosity showing on his face.

“Da, this is Haldir, he’s a march warden of Lothlórien, he’s here with Lord Celeborn.” Sigrid says, turning to him with a bright smile. “Haldir, please meet my father, Bard the Dragonslayer, future King of Dale.” She introduces him and he does smile this time as he watches the colour drain out of the elf’s face.

“A star shines over the hour of our meeting.” Bard greets in the elven fashion, salute and all, and he has to fight back the toothy grin when Haldir rushes to return the gesture, clearly flustered.

“I-i-it was a pleasure to meet you both. I-I should- I must attend to my Lord.” Haldir tells them both bowing his head to them and rushing away.

“Da!” Sigrid exclaims, the moment Haldir is out of earshot. “He was really nice!”

“Well, if he’s scared off by me then he’s not worthy of you, love.” Bard points out, as he ushers her inside the set of rooms they’ve claimed for themselves in a semi-destroyed house along what Bard knows was once one of the ‘high streets’. “Now, tell me what you’ve been up to, other than making eyes at boys.”

* * *

When he makes it back to his still destroyed throne room and the out of place wooden table with its equally out of place wooden chairs, he finds Lord Celeborn and Thranduil sitting on opposite ends of the table from each other, with none of the dwarves to be seen. He sighs and looks between them both, wondering what the hell they’re going to do when the dwarves arrive, and they have to decide who they’re unhappy with more.

He doesn’t have to wonder for very long since Thorin and Dain arrive together, Thorin still favouring his left side, though from what Bard’s heard, the future King is recovering well from his injuries. By the time the dwarves have stepped through the door, Lord Celeborn has moved to seat himself beside Thranduil, who has plastered on a polite but utterly disinterested smile. Bard wonders if it is too late to go ask to tag along with his children for the day.

* * *

Celeborn, and therefore Lothlórien, enter negotiations without too much grumbling on the part of the dwarves, who are more annoyed to have another elf to deal with than the fact they have a new trading partner. Celeborn, unlike Thranduil, Thorin, or Dain, seems to have a greater hold over his dislike of the other parties and manages to find peaceful resolutions even where Bard struggles. This, he’s fairly certain, is why Celeborn is called ‘the Wise’. Still, not wise enough to have avoided whatever argument, he first fell into with Thranduil, which has led to them being at odds. Thankfully, Bard’s diplomatic enough to know that saying such would garner no favours.

By the time the sun is making ready to start going down, Lothlórien has been successfully worked into their alliance agreement, which is, itself, still in the very early stages of being written up. Bard’s not sure they’re going to have anything completed by winter, but whatever they have should at least be workable and make it possible to get Dale and Erebor back off the ground.

Bard watches the dwarves heading away with a sense of trepidation, he wonders if the dwarves could feel the tension that’s only been growing between Thranduil and Lord Celeborn throughout the day. Though, Bard doesn’t think it had been obvious enough for the dwarves to find it, seeing as they tend to only see what they want to see. He sees the side-eye Lord Celeborn sends him and he raises an eyebrow.

“Are you presuming to dismiss me from my own throne room, Lord Celeborn?” Bard asks, his eyes narrowing as the elf startles in surprise. “I’m aware the room is in ruins at current, but it’s still mine.” The look Thranduil gives him is one of amusement and exasperation, but Bard only smiles in response, before turning back to Lord Celeborn. “Just pretend I’m not here and we’ll be fine.”

“We have very little to discuss and none of it that I’d consider keeping from King Bard, Hîr Celeborn.” Thranduil comments, before Lord Celeborn can speak, the old Lord sighs and shakes his head.

“We haven’t spoken in centuries and this is how you wish to do this?” Celeborn queries, but Thranduil just scoffs.

“Whose fault is that, Hîr nin?” Thranduil asks, his tone mocking, even though he uses the correct address. “You have known where I have been these last few centuries, these last two thousand years. If you have missed me, you have known where to find me.”

“You isolated yourself from us, would my presence have even been welcome?” Celeborn responds, frowning at Thranduil, who slams his hand down on the table, Bard notes the flicker of pain in his eyes and the way his jaw clenches for a few seconds before the emotion is whisked away.

“I know full well when I am unwanted. _Do not_ pretend like it was _I_ who turned _you_ away, _first_.” Thranduil says, his voice low and threatening and Celeborn tenses at the sound of it. Bard doesn’t particularly like it, either, it reminds him of a snarling, spitting, scared and hurt cat ready to lash out at anyone who comes near.

“Thranduil-“

“My words fell upon your deaf ears, but I heard _your_ words loudly and utterly clearly.” Thranduil states, suddenly pushing away from the table and climbing to his feet. “If you wish me to be in your life, Celeborn, _put me there_ , I shouldn’t have to fight for a place.” He declares, turning away from Celeborn and slipping back into his tent. Bard sees the way the words strike Celeborn like a blow, the elf recoiling with a gasp, one hand clutched over his heart.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will forever haunt me.” Bard comments, as he gets to his feet and follows after his lover. As he passes through the tent flap, he passes Galion, who looks like an elf on a mission, Bard doesn’t envy Lord Celeborn.

He finds Thranduil sitting in his wooden throne, his jaw clenched, the top of his robe pulled down to expose the bloodied bandages that Thranduil is unraveling with practiced hands. Bard hurries forward to take over, as Thranduil shifts uncomfortably on the throne.

“I shouldn’t have done any of that.” Thranduil comments, his voice strained with pain. “Also, I’m fairly certain I’ve reopened the stitches.”

“Well, lucky for you I managed to learn the noble art of healing somewhere along the way in my near five thousand years of life,” Bard admits before he snorts. “Actually, I lie. Atar made sure I knew enough healing to survive even if I was the last man on the face of the earth. I’ve just picked up other things here and there since.” He says, tossing the soiled bandages aside and frowning at the bloodied gauze that’s revealed. “Supplies?” he queries, Thranduil indicates with his head to the bedroom, Bard steps through and goes searching, finding a pouch of supplies tucked into the corner.

He grabs the pouch and hurries back out, pausing to wash his hands in the basin sitting on the little table, before he’s back at Thranduil’s side, gently pulling the gauze away to reveal the wound beneath. He winces at the sight of it, so close to the heart, but just missing.

“You don’t get to decide what’s your own business anymore.” Bard decides, putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, while he frowns at Thranduil. “This could have _killed_ you.”

“Yes, of course, it could have. It was _battle_ , dearest Bard.” Thranduil answers, sounding more amused than patronizing, Bard doesn’t stop frowning, either way. “It didn’t kill me.” Thranduil says, his voice quiet and earnest, and Bard can’t help but sigh at the sound of it.

“Because you got lucky.” he states, shaking his head. “I hope you know; I’m going to fuss at you about this, now.”

“Isn’t that what you’re already doing?” Thranduil asks, sounding far too put upon to be justified.

“True.” Bard agrees with a grin. “Tell me about the elf named Haldir.” he declares, as he starts pulling out the broken stitches.

“What of him?” Thranduil queries, shaking his head in confusion.

“He has a mutual crush on Sigrid.” Bard states, looking away from his work to glance at Thranduil’s face, just in time to see the wicked smile that forms.

“Well, isn’t that something.” Thranduil murmurs before he sucks in a deep breath and starts to tell him Haldir’s entire life story while he works.

All in all, Bard thinks, Sigrid can’t do much better than Haldir. Marchwarden, competent leader, loving older brother, ward/adopted son of the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, and not a complete arsehole. Yes, he decides, Sigrid truly could have done a lot worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things to note: 
> 
> Amon Lanc (Oropher's fortress in southern Greenwood) fell to orcs and was taken over by Sauron and became Dol Guldur. Thranduil tried to tell this to the White Council/Council of the Wise, but they assumed the person in charge at the fortress was one of the Nazgul and wouldn't hear a word otherwise...   
> Celeborn fulfilled the function of 'uncle' to Thran, Galion, Nimloth, and Luthien, and so when Celeborn refused to listen to Thranduil alongside the others, Thran kind of threw them all the fuck out of his life and refused to have anything to do with them... (except for Celebrian, but I don't think that gets mentioned in this fic series much...)


	7. i now pronounce you (dragonslayers and kings)

Waking in the middle of the night to the sound of someone screaming has become a normal occurrence, so much so that Bard has almost reached the point where he almost doesn’t even wake up anymore. Tonight, though, is not a natural occurrence, because the screaming is directly into his ear, jolting him from sleep almost the moment it starts.

Thranduil writhes on the bed beside him, his arms tucked close to his chest, fingers twitching as Thranduil arches up, digging his head and his feet into the pillows and the bed beneath him. Bard watches in horrified silence as the visible skin on the left side of Thranduil’s face starts to dissolve away, leaving ruined flesh beneath. Bard’s seen the scar before, little more than a glimpse of it, but nothing would have prepared him for the devastation he feels watching the unblemished skin melting away.

“Thranduil?” he calls, his voice shaking at first, but as he repeats the name, he manages to find his strength, his courage, Thranduil doesn’t answer. “Love, you need to wake up. It’s just a dream. It’s a memory.” Bard coaxes, moving through all the languages he knows that he thinks Thranduil might know, too, on the chance that any of them might get through.

A commotion at the entranceway causes him to shift, rolling from the bed just as Galion comes rushing through the tent flap, Lords Elrond and Celeborn hot on his heels, just behind them are a set of twins that Bard doesn’t recognize. At the back of his mind, he recognises that, with them standing side by side with Elrond, there is a similarity, even if he’s certain these twins are not Elrond’s famous set. Then, right after the twins comes Legolas, his eyes wide in fear and concern that swiftly turns to horror when he sees the state his father is in.

“Galion.” Bard commands when none of the newcomers does more than stare in shock. “Your king is not accepting visitors at this time!” he nudges, watches as Galion suddenly pulls himself together and nods stiffly.

Bard waits as Galion grabs Lord Elrond’s wrist and pulls him away, one twin grabbing Lord Celeborn and the other grabbing Legolas. All three go without resistance, which Bard assumes shows just how shaken they are by what they’ve seen, given he’s heard tales of all three of them. He shakes his head to clear it as Thranduil’s screams turn to strangled cries and Bard remembers the task before him as he crawls back into the bed.

“Love, you must wake.” He calls softly, reaching out and nudging Thranduil gently, as he continues to call to him. He doesn’t know exactly what it is that pulls Thranduil from the night terror back into the waking world, but the fog in those beautiful green eyes fades away, even if the fear doesn’t. Thranduil’s keening cries cut off abruptly, his breaths still shaking but coming back into some semblance of control. “Love?” Bard whispers, cautious as he tries not to move. Thranduil sucks in a breath and slowly turns to look at him, frowning.

“Bard?”

“You had a night terror, love.” Bard explains, shifting to lie down at Thranduil’s side, gently resting his arm around Thranduil when his lover snuggles in against him, seemingly exhausted.

“The dragon.” Thranduil murmurs, his words tinged with unhappiness and the lingering tendrils of sleep.

“I assumed so,” Bard admits, Thranduil frowns at him and Bard hesitates. “Your glamour fell.” He says, breathing deeply when Thranduil violently recoils from him, rolling over to hide his scarred face in the pillows. “Thranduil, love, you don’t have to hide from me.” Thranduil doesn’t answer though and Bard sighs, sitting up again to look down at his love. “Look at me.”

“Bard-“

“Look at me, Thranduil, please?” Bard asks, keeping his voice gentle but firm, even as his heart is aching in his chest. Slowly, reluctantly, Thranduil turns his head to look at him, the scar pulls that side of his face into a grimace, Bard isn’t put off by the scar, perhaps once he would have been. When he was younger, more foolish, surrounded by elves far more beautiful than he could ever have hoped to be, he may have placed some stock in physical beauty and hated his perceived lack of it, but he is older now, wiser. There is more to beauty, more to loving someone, than just the turn of their face.

The look in Thranduil’s eyes is terrified and anticipatory and _accepting_ all at once and Bard can’t help but feel annoyed that Thranduil thinks so little of _both_ of them. That he believes Bard could be turned away from him by a scar that will always have been the more preferred outcome over Thranduil not being here at all. The smile that pulls at his lips probably fails to convey all the love that he feels for this elf, but it tries anyway. He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the scarred cheekbone, followed by the scarred temple, and then little kisses peppered all down the scarred skin on the left side of Thranduil’s face. Beneath him, Thranduil has gone entirely still, Bard’s not even sure if the elf is even still breathing.

He fully intends to follow the scar down Thranduil’s neck, kissing every inch until he finds its end, but a trembling hand lands on his wrist and pulls and Bard, turns back to Thranduil’s face. Has just enough time to see the stunned disbelief and stubborn determination on Thranduil’s face, before the elf is launching upward, crushing their lips together. Bard’s pretty sure he chuckles, but he wouldn’t be able to swear on it as he gives himself into the kiss.

Come morning, by the laws of the elves, they are happily bound in wedded bliss.

* * *

It’s pressure shifting on his chest that draws Bard from slumber, he blinks open his eyes and pauses, a small smile forming when the first thing he sees is a set of vibrant green eyes, followed by a soft, fond smile. Bard hums happily and readjusts himself on the bed to be comfortable, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Good morning.” Bard greets, leaning forward to catch a kiss. “Hmm, and welcome back to married life.” He continues, cocking his head to the side. “Probably should have discussed that with my children…”

“Hmm, my children are all grown, so their opinion on whom I marry is neither needed nor wanted, but… will I pass muster?” Thranduil queries, raising an amused eyebrow, Bard almost misses the undertone of concern.

“Tilda thinks you hung the moon, Bain and Sigrid already figured out there was something going on since I’ve spent the last few nights absent from our ‘home’. So, I wouldn’t worry.” Bard answers, shrugging his shoulders, Thranduil frowns at him.

“Tilda thinks I hung the moon?” he queries, sounding oddly confused, Bard considers that and remembers all those years ago, having to learn human slang and figures of speech, some of which are regional.

“Hmm, it means she thinks you’re wonderful, her own personal hero.” Bard explains, rolling his eyes. “Girl thinks you can do no wrong.”

“I-why?” Thranduil exclaims, pulling back with a perplexed expression on his face. “I have barely had time to do more than share a few ‘tea parties’ with her… and that hasn’t happened since the battle.”

“Not many adults take the time to listen to children, especially not children Tilda’s age. You made time to interact with her even though you were busy.” Bard says, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “Elves are generally very good at that.”

“Children are precious to us,” Thranduil answers, pulling away from Bard and climbing from the bed, though there is reluctance written in every line of his body. “But you would know that better than most.” He comments and Bard hums in agreement.

“True enough.” He agrees, starting to extract himself from the bed with a sigh. He watches Thranduil gather his healing supplies, then sit on the edge of the bed and start unraveling the bandages around his chest. Bard moves to take over, pouting when Thranduil looks set to refuse.

“Fine.” Thranduil eventually huffs, letting his hands fall into his lap.

“We agreed I was allowed to fuss.” Bard points out, as he takes over. “By the way, Tweedledum and Tweedledee and Legolas barged in during your night terror last night, they saw the scar.” He explains, pursing his lips when Thranduil’s entire body tenses up.

“Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” Thranduil asks, his jaw clenched, Bard wonders how Thranduil hasn’t destroyed his teeth with the amount that he grinds them.

“Lords Elrond and Celeborn.” Bard corrects, smirking. “It’s a children’s nursery rhyme.”

“I see.” Thranduil answers, even though it’s clear he absolutely does not. Bard hums and focusses on Thranduil’s wound, frowning when he notes the stitches have torn again. He’s only relatively certain they were torn during Thranduil’s night terror rather than anything else. Still, he makes a mental note to be more careful in the future.

“Did they not know about the scar before?” Bard queries, as Thranduil is still tense beneath him. Thranduil sighs heavily and rubs at his face.

“Legolas saw only a glimpse of it, once, and thought it was a healing wound. Elrond and Celeborn have never seen it. As far as they’re aware, I slew a dragon and walked away unharmed.”

“I’d say that’s foolish but, well, glasshouses.” Bard answers, aware that he slew his own dragon and walked away unharmed, if maybe suffering a little heatstroke.

“Good morning the Kings of Dale and the Greenwood, Dragonslayers.” A far too smug voice calls from beyond their room, Bard won’t be able to recall the emotions that must have flittered across his face as he processed the words, though he will always remember the perplexed look on Thranduil’s face.

“That’s going to be awkwardly confusing, we need to discuss titles.” Bard states, the first of them to recover. Thranduil laughs before he hides his face in his hands with a groan.

“That’s a problem for later- you’re not even crowned, yet!”

“Even if I wasn’t an Uncrowned King, I just married into royalty.” Bard answers with a smug grin, Thranduil looks at him through his fingers and glares, but Bard pretends not to notice.

“Come in, Galion.” Thranduil finally calls, the tent flap parting as Galion steps through with amusement shining in his eyes. It fades a little as he tells Thranduil his agenda for the day, Bard quietly going over his own in his mind.

It’s going to be a long day, but Bard’s certain they’ll get through it, as they’ve gotten through all the days that came before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of part one. There's another part written and I'm in the middle of writing the third part atm... :) :) 
> 
> Things to note:   
> This gets covered in Part 2, but we'll cover it here anyway. The 'unknown' twins are Elured and Elurin, because I've become unable to let them just die. So, Thran rescued them from Menegroth as he and Galion were escaping and he's hidden them ever since, he and Galion raised them as their sons...


End file.
